This is probably what the headline of the the story I filed yesterday for the local paper should have read. Maybe those overnight editor bitches wouldn't have edited out the heart (along with 3/4 of the copy) and buried the goddamned story on B12. I had been promised 25 inches of front-page newshole for this pup.
I have got to start publishing somewhere else. In fact, I think I'll start sending out the original piece I wrote about the first ever FTM (female-to-male) Transgender Conference in the state. Actually it was the first transgender conference full stop in the state, perhaps the friggin' region. I'll have to look that up.
But it was a beautiful thing to see so many people who had felt so isolated come together to talk openly about their struggles, their identities, their attempts to show up in this world and be loved--truly--for who they are. They were kind, compassionate and generous--so eager to educate and make me, and through me, the community comfortable in their presence. It would never have occurred to me to judge any one of them. I see them as heroes.
So after I turned around the story in two hours for my deadline, I bought groceries and picked up "Breakfast on Pluto," a film I had already watched twice. Now I have watched it four times, once with commentary by Neil Jordan and Cillian Murphy. A part of me wants to drop out of everything I know, go off, dream it all up again, and then enroll in film school. Maybe. Although I don't think I have the vision to produce and direct. I'm just a friggin' writer after all. But I see so many similarities in theme and scope between my screenplay in progress and "Pluto."
I know it sounds like I might be leading up to an announcement that I am planning to become a man, but this is in fact not the case. Yes, I'm a gay cowboy on the inside, but I'm one of those gay cowboys who likes dressing up all girly and dating manly men. I learned yesterday that there are actually four male-female continuums upon which we must locate ourselves. Or so said the massage therapist trans man who I think really just wanted to know where I fell on those continuums so he could figure out what kind of massage I might let him give me. Meh. No go. Too bad, though. Because it would seem that a man who has had the experience of living in a woman's body might be the most compassionate and ideal mate for a straight gal. Who the hell knows. I've never seen an ideal mate of any kind whatsoever, so I'll reserve judgment.
But back to "Pluto," the story of a trans woman abandoned by her mother in 1950s Ireland. In the context of 1970s Ireland at the height of "The Troubles" she begins a quest for her mother, but on the way finds herself through and despite cruel lovers, terrorism, hatred, disownment, abuse. . . . the most interesting part of it all is that she doesn't really have to find herself--she was there from the get go. She finds love and acceptance without changing who she is. Could there be a more triumphant story?
I sure as shit hope mine makes its way to the same ending. Damn.
I've had a strange week. Spent most of my energy kindly fighting off unwanted sexual advances from an authority figure without compromising my dignity and work. Friday I was as close to emotional exhaustion as I think I've ever been. Then I hung out with the embracing trannies Saturday and that helped. Then the paper supremely fucked up my story and ran it with my byline. I'm pissed. And not getting any closer to finishing my final papers for a lit professor who has been so kind to grant me an extremely generous extension. I need a vacation. I've been working too hard on every possible level. Still hussling to make ends meet, though. Crazy.
Could someone please arrange for more money than I need to fall on my lap without strings attached? Please and thank you.
In the meantime, I'll continue to do everything I can not to abandon myself in the midst of intense emotional chaos. I guess it's all I can do.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Existential Crisis #472, inspired by Cyndi Lauper
I’ve been thinking about the pop icons I grew up with, the music, the culture, and there’s all kinds of stuff there. I was thinking about Madonna, because she is the biggest, most obvious female icon of the era, but she didn’t really do much for me until I got much older. I started paying attention to her in college, really. I was aware of her when I was a kid—“Like a Virgin” was a song I remember my friends' parents banning; censorship was never part of the rules in my household. I remember the “Material Girl” video and learning from my mother that Madonna was ripping off Marilyn Monroe in “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes,” a film I didn’t see until I was in middle school, a film which now I know by heart. I can sing all its songs and recite all the dialogue verbatim.
The first Christmas I spent with my dad after my parents divorced, it was just the two of us in his little apartment overlooking a golf course. He gave me a stereo, among all kinds of other trinkets. It had a cassette player, a turntable and two speakers, all of which could be tucked up to form a kind of suitcase. A transportable thing, the first of many gifts that I could take with me wherever I went. With the stereo, he gave me the Madonna record, “You Can Dance.” It’s the one with the red sleeve, and she’s dressed in black, posed as if she's about to spin around. In addition to the happy title song, “Holiday” is on the album, and it remains the most joyous song I’ve ever heard. It unfailingly inspires me to dance with abandon every time I hear it. But Madonna’s more of an afterthought in the culture of my coming of age.
If I think of the pop icons that I really connected with in the early ‘80’s, I come up with Cyndi Lauper, Tina Turner, Michael Jackson, Boy George and Wham. Gay boys and tough broads. All carving their own way and celebrated for it. I loved performing for my parents and their friends, and my favorite role was Tina. I’d tease out my hair, put on some sunglasses and a shiny, hot pink unitard, grab a bottle or anything as a microphone, stand up on the piano bench and sing “What’s Love Got to Do with It?” My mother had seen Tina play clubs in San Francisco and loved her. They both had those gorgeous legs.
But Cyndi Lauper felt closer to me. If my mother had allowed it, I would have colored my hair red and yellow. My punk style was more Cyndi than it was Madonna. For my 7th birthday party, I invited kids over to the house, but they had to come dressed punk. Most of them misunderstood the costume requirement, so it was a bunch of first graders in polo shirts and khaki shorts and me with my hair as big as I could get it wearing evening gloves with the fingers cut off, pink leggings under a short, poufy skirt and a short, lacy blazer over a ripped t-shirt. I distinctly remember having a huge, rhinestone pin that spelled out PARIS pinned to my lapel. “She’s So Unusual” was my favorite record, and I played it nonstop. My mother took me to see her perform at the Bronco Bowl in Ft. Worth when I was 8 or 9. I remember weeping at the sight of Cyndi in the flesh—overwhelmed by that feeling that she was singing to me and me alone, that somehow I was plugging in to her. I couldn’t speak after the performance and I don’t think I ever articulated how powerful the event had been for me.
In fact, I forgot about Cyndi Lauper, like the rest of the world, until last week when I read in the New York Times that she is performing on Broadway in Three Penny Opera. She’s 52 now, married and a mom. But she’s ballsy as ever, pushing her own boundaries, doing what she loves whether or not she receives the recognition or the credit for what she’s doing. (Some say Madonna ripped off Cyndi’s vocal, dance and fashion style and gave her no credit).
But I decided to revisit Cyndi Lauper. I found a CD of hers at the grocery store of all places, on sale for $7.99. After I loaded up my car with the salmon, eggs and green beans I bought, I popped in the disc. “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” took me back 20 years in a flash, and tears streamed down my cheeks beneath my sunglasses. In the song, the girl’s parents are nagging her about what she’s going to do with her life and she pleads with them: she just wants to have fun. But the subtext is she never really does. And here I am, 20 years later, still wondering what I’m going to do with my life, wondering when I’m going to have fun.
What is thought of as such a light, joyous pop song made me tap into my own deep melancholia, something I rarely do these days, certainly not publicly. I thought of something my dad used to say to me. “Kid, you’re born into this world alone, and you die alone.” I always thought he was being melodramatic, but he’s right. But he didn’t take it far enough. What he didn’t say was you fucking live this life alone, too. And that’s where I am. Fucking 29 years old, alone, after escaping death, on a wild goose chase after life . . . I got nothing. What in the hell do I think I’m doing, anyway? Distracting myself from my own melancholia by attempting to beat the time with my own memory?
People rarely see my deep sadness because my mother has taught me by example how to hide it and my father has always demanded that I “fake it until you make it.” Make it where? And how? I suspect the quest is itself the destination, but right now that’s simply not enough. There’s too much grief for it to make sense. And what’s the fucking point of it? If I were truly Catholic, I’d say it’s the suffering, the suffering and subsequent compassion that is the point. But I’ve done that and so what? I’m in it, living it, and so what? A real Catholic believes in the resurrection, believes in everlasting life in the Kingdom of Heaven, but I joined the Church for the ritual and I never bought into any of that shit. I see no prize awaiting me. I don’t live according to some reward system.
Most of the time I take great pleasure in small things: the way the soft light of spring illuminates a budding daffodil; a great guitar riff, played too loudly; the tender touch or kind word of a dear friend. But when I am not in the immediate presence of those things, when I feel I’ll break from the absence, I can no longer muster the false hope, the optimism that comes so naturally to me.
And I wonder, what the fuck do I think I’m doing? What does it matter? Who am I to be so arrogant to think I have something to say? Do I have something to say? Or does the world have something to say to me? Journalism is so much safer—its importance is implicit. But what is the purpose of revisiting my own darkness? To what end . . . ?
I fear there is no end—that this book project is insurmountable, that I’m fooling myself, spinning my wheels, that there isn’t even an ending because it hasn’t yet played out. So why write it down? The answer can’t be my own therapy, because who gives a shit? If I do it, if I don’t do it, if I finish, if I never finish . . . I’m still alone, an only child, alone with a darker, deeper streak of melancholia that cannot be shaken.
The first Christmas I spent with my dad after my parents divorced, it was just the two of us in his little apartment overlooking a golf course. He gave me a stereo, among all kinds of other trinkets. It had a cassette player, a turntable and two speakers, all of which could be tucked up to form a kind of suitcase. A transportable thing, the first of many gifts that I could take with me wherever I went. With the stereo, he gave me the Madonna record, “You Can Dance.” It’s the one with the red sleeve, and she’s dressed in black, posed as if she's about to spin around. In addition to the happy title song, “Holiday” is on the album, and it remains the most joyous song I’ve ever heard. It unfailingly inspires me to dance with abandon every time I hear it. But Madonna’s more of an afterthought in the culture of my coming of age.
If I think of the pop icons that I really connected with in the early ‘80’s, I come up with Cyndi Lauper, Tina Turner, Michael Jackson, Boy George and Wham. Gay boys and tough broads. All carving their own way and celebrated for it. I loved performing for my parents and their friends, and my favorite role was Tina. I’d tease out my hair, put on some sunglasses and a shiny, hot pink unitard, grab a bottle or anything as a microphone, stand up on the piano bench and sing “What’s Love Got to Do with It?” My mother had seen Tina play clubs in San Francisco and loved her. They both had those gorgeous legs.
But Cyndi Lauper felt closer to me. If my mother had allowed it, I would have colored my hair red and yellow. My punk style was more Cyndi than it was Madonna. For my 7th birthday party, I invited kids over to the house, but they had to come dressed punk. Most of them misunderstood the costume requirement, so it was a bunch of first graders in polo shirts and khaki shorts and me with my hair as big as I could get it wearing evening gloves with the fingers cut off, pink leggings under a short, poufy skirt and a short, lacy blazer over a ripped t-shirt. I distinctly remember having a huge, rhinestone pin that spelled out PARIS pinned to my lapel. “She’s So Unusual” was my favorite record, and I played it nonstop. My mother took me to see her perform at the Bronco Bowl in Ft. Worth when I was 8 or 9. I remember weeping at the sight of Cyndi in the flesh—overwhelmed by that feeling that she was singing to me and me alone, that somehow I was plugging in to her. I couldn’t speak after the performance and I don’t think I ever articulated how powerful the event had been for me.
In fact, I forgot about Cyndi Lauper, like the rest of the world, until last week when I read in the New York Times that she is performing on Broadway in Three Penny Opera. She’s 52 now, married and a mom. But she’s ballsy as ever, pushing her own boundaries, doing what she loves whether or not she receives the recognition or the credit for what she’s doing. (Some say Madonna ripped off Cyndi’s vocal, dance and fashion style and gave her no credit).
But I decided to revisit Cyndi Lauper. I found a CD of hers at the grocery store of all places, on sale for $7.99. After I loaded up my car with the salmon, eggs and green beans I bought, I popped in the disc. “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” took me back 20 years in a flash, and tears streamed down my cheeks beneath my sunglasses. In the song, the girl’s parents are nagging her about what she’s going to do with her life and she pleads with them: she just wants to have fun. But the subtext is she never really does. And here I am, 20 years later, still wondering what I’m going to do with my life, wondering when I’m going to have fun.
What is thought of as such a light, joyous pop song made me tap into my own deep melancholia, something I rarely do these days, certainly not publicly. I thought of something my dad used to say to me. “Kid, you’re born into this world alone, and you die alone.” I always thought he was being melodramatic, but he’s right. But he didn’t take it far enough. What he didn’t say was you fucking live this life alone, too. And that’s where I am. Fucking 29 years old, alone, after escaping death, on a wild goose chase after life . . . I got nothing. What in the hell do I think I’m doing, anyway? Distracting myself from my own melancholia by attempting to beat the time with my own memory?
People rarely see my deep sadness because my mother has taught me by example how to hide it and my father has always demanded that I “fake it until you make it.” Make it where? And how? I suspect the quest is itself the destination, but right now that’s simply not enough. There’s too much grief for it to make sense. And what’s the fucking point of it? If I were truly Catholic, I’d say it’s the suffering, the suffering and subsequent compassion that is the point. But I’ve done that and so what? I’m in it, living it, and so what? A real Catholic believes in the resurrection, believes in everlasting life in the Kingdom of Heaven, but I joined the Church for the ritual and I never bought into any of that shit. I see no prize awaiting me. I don’t live according to some reward system.
Most of the time I take great pleasure in small things: the way the soft light of spring illuminates a budding daffodil; a great guitar riff, played too loudly; the tender touch or kind word of a dear friend. But when I am not in the immediate presence of those things, when I feel I’ll break from the absence, I can no longer muster the false hope, the optimism that comes so naturally to me.
And I wonder, what the fuck do I think I’m doing? What does it matter? Who am I to be so arrogant to think I have something to say? Do I have something to say? Or does the world have something to say to me? Journalism is so much safer—its importance is implicit. But what is the purpose of revisiting my own darkness? To what end . . . ?
I fear there is no end—that this book project is insurmountable, that I’m fooling myself, spinning my wheels, that there isn’t even an ending because it hasn’t yet played out. So why write it down? The answer can’t be my own therapy, because who gives a shit? If I do it, if I don’t do it, if I finish, if I never finish . . . I’m still alone, an only child, alone with a darker, deeper streak of melancholia that cannot be shaken.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Neglected.
I return to you, dear bloggy friends, because I have missed you, yes. But why today in particular? Because I am on deadline and have already done the following in stalling writing this friggin' piece:
*cleaned the kitchen, including the floor
*had a good, long soak and shaved practically every damn thing that can be shaved on my body
*blew out my hair
*changed my outfit 3 times, and I have no plans to leave the house today at all
*ate every cookie in the house
*paced around in my slippers
*made lots of phone calls, mostly left messages
*booked the flights for my 2006 European Summer Extravaganza
*conducted a lengthy google search on "Phantom of the Opera" (ick) (for the review I'm stalling on writing)
What's left? A run, but I'm too full of ginger snaps for that.
Blogging.
Since the last post:
*HB came to town, called me "Baby" despite my protestations, then got caught (by me) talking on the phone to someone else apparently named "Baby", then he took me to dinner and confessed that he has always and continues to love me (pfft), then he emptied the house and drove back to Boston in a big truck filled with all kinds of shit that I used to use. Like a dining room table. As BFF said, "Now you've got a blank canvas and more room to dance." God, I love that girl. Speaks the truth, so she does.
*a very important figure in my life who also happens to hold a position of authority over me, confessed that he has fallen in love with me.
*I went to Confession. For the first time in many years.
*after doing the Stations of the Cross, on my knees. That's right, people. It was me getting crucified this Good Friday.
*I finished one of my teaching gigs for the year. Bye, bitches!
*And still no word on the job front, but there's been all kinds of proposing and rallying and potential movement surrounding the positions I hold. We'll see.
Geez. That's enough, isn't it?
Next week is finals week, so I'm hastily trying to finish up my own classwork. Oy. I can't wait for summer.
*cleaned the kitchen, including the floor
*had a good, long soak and shaved practically every damn thing that can be shaved on my body
*blew out my hair
*changed my outfit 3 times, and I have no plans to leave the house today at all
*ate every cookie in the house
*paced around in my slippers
*made lots of phone calls, mostly left messages
*booked the flights for my 2006 European Summer Extravaganza
*conducted a lengthy google search on "Phantom of the Opera" (ick) (for the review I'm stalling on writing)
What's left? A run, but I'm too full of ginger snaps for that.
Blogging.
Since the last post:
*HB came to town, called me "Baby" despite my protestations, then got caught (by me) talking on the phone to someone else apparently named "Baby", then he took me to dinner and confessed that he has always and continues to love me (pfft), then he emptied the house and drove back to Boston in a big truck filled with all kinds of shit that I used to use. Like a dining room table. As BFF said, "Now you've got a blank canvas and more room to dance." God, I love that girl. Speaks the truth, so she does.
*a very important figure in my life who also happens to hold a position of authority over me, confessed that he has fallen in love with me.
*I went to Confession. For the first time in many years.
*after doing the Stations of the Cross, on my knees. That's right, people. It was me getting crucified this Good Friday.
*I finished one of my teaching gigs for the year. Bye, bitches!
*And still no word on the job front, but there's been all kinds of proposing and rallying and potential movement surrounding the positions I hold. We'll see.
Geez. That's enough, isn't it?
Next week is finals week, so I'm hastily trying to finish up my own classwork. Oy. I can't wait for summer.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Sitting on it.
Thank you for your well wishes and encouragement; and to those of you who tried to play the devil's advocate (you know who you are and you've always played the role so well), thank you for relenting and finally agreeing with me. See, this is what I do. I make up my mind and then tell everyone I know what the situation is, ask for their reaction, and then proceed to persuade them to see it my way. It's like if I succeed with my powers of persuasion, then I convince myself that I'm right.
And since there really is no formal offer, I have no decision to make. Things could change a dozen times before I get a chance to make a choice.
In the meantime, much more wonderful things are in the works. I am spending July in Prague teaching and networking with famous, fabulous writers. Woot! One of my dearest, most fabulous friends is getting married in France at the end of August. Hooray! This means two things for me: 1)I get to buy a new hat, and 2)I get to find a way to kill a month in Europe, cuz I'm not shelling out summer European airfare twice. I already have two pretty solid options: stay on in Prague and babysit or bartend in a friend's latest business venture south of Dublin. I'm leaning toward Irish pub life. Duh.
Can anyone out there propose any other options?
And HB is breezing into town to pick up his furniture. This means: an emptier house (I'm a slave to others' absence) and greater liberation from the ex whom I still love but choose not to be with. I'm looking forward to seeing him, and eager to observe myself in his presence. I feel like such a different woman than the one I embodied when we were together. The only way I can describe it is I'm more in possession of my power. And it's thanks to deliberate time away from an "other".
Have I mentioned how much joy I find in being alone these days? Seriously. I am productive and producing exactly what I want, including a deeper understanding of what it is I want. Connecting to my own desire, not someone else's is incredible freeing. I highly recommend it.
Yesterday the sun shone, the birds sang, a warm breeze moved the newly blossomed daffodils and I hurried home after work to go for a run. It's all I wanted to do. That has never happened before. I run; I've trained for a marathon; I exercise most days. Not because I love it, or particularly enjoy these things . . . I love what it does for me and the way I feel. But yesterday I longed for the doing of it, not the effect. And strangely, running the trails was a little hard, but I appreciated my breath and the way my body moved differently.
Thank God for spring. It changes everything and creeps up like a surprise every damn year.
And since there really is no formal offer, I have no decision to make. Things could change a dozen times before I get a chance to make a choice.
In the meantime, much more wonderful things are in the works. I am spending July in Prague teaching and networking with famous, fabulous writers. Woot! One of my dearest, most fabulous friends is getting married in France at the end of August. Hooray! This means two things for me: 1)I get to buy a new hat, and 2)I get to find a way to kill a month in Europe, cuz I'm not shelling out summer European airfare twice. I already have two pretty solid options: stay on in Prague and babysit or bartend in a friend's latest business venture south of Dublin. I'm leaning toward Irish pub life. Duh.
Can anyone out there propose any other options?
And HB is breezing into town to pick up his furniture. This means: an emptier house (I'm a slave to others' absence) and greater liberation from the ex whom I still love but choose not to be with. I'm looking forward to seeing him, and eager to observe myself in his presence. I feel like such a different woman than the one I embodied when we were together. The only way I can describe it is I'm more in possession of my power. And it's thanks to deliberate time away from an "other".
Have I mentioned how much joy I find in being alone these days? Seriously. I am productive and producing exactly what I want, including a deeper understanding of what it is I want. Connecting to my own desire, not someone else's is incredible freeing. I highly recommend it.
Yesterday the sun shone, the birds sang, a warm breeze moved the newly blossomed daffodils and I hurried home after work to go for a run. It's all I wanted to do. That has never happened before. I run; I've trained for a marathon; I exercise most days. Not because I love it, or particularly enjoy these things . . . I love what it does for me and the way I feel. But yesterday I longed for the doing of it, not the effect. And strangely, running the trails was a little hard, but I appreciated my breath and the way my body moved differently.
Thank God for spring. It changes everything and creeps up like a surprise every damn year.
Sunday, April 09, 2006
Oh Sunday morning.
Already--and it's just 10 a.m. in these parts--I'm weepy and reconsidering the way I think about the nature of art. All thanks to taking in CBS Sunday Morning and the New York Times, my weekly Sunday ritual. Thanks to Bill Flanagan, God love him, I've also downloaded two new albums from itunes. I've never bothered to figure out how to steal music, so I continue to buy it. I hope the artists--and not just Steve Jobs--get the money.
Which brings me to my latest dilemma: what does it cost to be an artist? Is it worth giving up security, stability, to chase a dream? How much faith and trust does it take?
Van Gogh sold one painting during his lifetime. Was it worth it? How do we define a good life? Would Van Gogh have had a better life if he'd trained to be an accountant? Would he have suffered less? Would he have been more comfortable?
Or for a person who is driven to create, is a life that denies them opportunity to create the equivalent of a death sentence? Selling themselves one day at a time, allowing the world to suck the living life out of them all in the name of a paycheck, a hot meal, the warding off of frostbite?
I am not a member of that privileged class of artists who can rely on a trust fund or a wealthy family as a safety net, so for me to turn down a position that doubles my salary and more or less guarantees a fast track in the most stable industry around is no small thing. Especially considering the amount of debt I'm in.
But what is more important: a debt-, frostbite-, hunger-free existence or doing what I love? I think denying my calling would create a deeper hunger in me that no amount of money or what it can buy could satisfy.
And what of truth and beauty? What does being a high-level college administrator have to do with that? So I could walk around in Ferragamos and get my hair done every week and furnish my home with antiques and drive a shinier car . . . and perhaps the education of others has something to do with beauty and truth--but whose?
What is it worth?
Which brings me to my latest dilemma: what does it cost to be an artist? Is it worth giving up security, stability, to chase a dream? How much faith and trust does it take?
Van Gogh sold one painting during his lifetime. Was it worth it? How do we define a good life? Would Van Gogh have had a better life if he'd trained to be an accountant? Would he have suffered less? Would he have been more comfortable?
Or for a person who is driven to create, is a life that denies them opportunity to create the equivalent of a death sentence? Selling themselves one day at a time, allowing the world to suck the living life out of them all in the name of a paycheck, a hot meal, the warding off of frostbite?
I am not a member of that privileged class of artists who can rely on a trust fund or a wealthy family as a safety net, so for me to turn down a position that doubles my salary and more or less guarantees a fast track in the most stable industry around is no small thing. Especially considering the amount of debt I'm in.
But what is more important: a debt-, frostbite-, hunger-free existence or doing what I love? I think denying my calling would create a deeper hunger in me that no amount of money or what it can buy could satisfy.
And what of truth and beauty? What does being a high-level college administrator have to do with that? So I could walk around in Ferragamos and get my hair done every week and furnish my home with antiques and drive a shinier car . . . and perhaps the education of others has something to do with beauty and truth--but whose?
What is it worth?
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Up and running.
Hooray! Laptop in hand and running at full throttle. I'm even online at home again.
But the day I thought I might lose her for good (and found out I indeed lost 6000 words of my book manuscript for good), I made myself feel better with bon bons and lipstick. That's right. There ain't much in this world that a newly purchased Chanel Barcelona Red and Rouge lip liner and a few Godiva chocolates can't temporarily soothe. And no headache or VD in the morning.
What's your quick fix?
But the day I thought I might lose her for good (and found out I indeed lost 6000 words of my book manuscript for good), I made myself feel better with bon bons and lipstick. That's right. There ain't much in this world that a newly purchased Chanel Barcelona Red and Rouge lip liner and a few Godiva chocolates can't temporarily soothe. And no headache or VD in the morning.
What's your quick fix?
Friday, April 07, 2006
Shell shocked
Okay, so it's true. There's a real possibility, but no concrete offer of a new position with lots more money and perhaps less work. But it's in an entirely different direction than where I thought I was headed. Means full time administrative work, no more teaching journalism. Or still teaching journalism, but for no more money--just cuz I love it and want to do it.
Ugh. I hate administrative work.
I just have to keep thinking about the father's speech in "Long Day's Journey Into Night." He's lamenting the fact that he could have been a Shakespearean actor, but he's ended up a hack who has played the same role over and over again because it made him a good living. He ends with "What is it I wanted to buy that was worth. . . . "
This haunts me.
I'm calling my therapist.
Ugh. I hate administrative work.
I just have to keep thinking about the father's speech in "Long Day's Journey Into Night." He's lamenting the fact that he could have been a Shakespearean actor, but he's ended up a hack who has played the same role over and over again because it made him a good living. He ends with "What is it I wanted to buy that was worth. . . . "
This haunts me.
I'm calling my therapist.
Out the door
. . . and on my way to a meeting with a very powerful man. This could be good; this could be bad.
I've been summoned. And I don't know why. But I know it's important enough for the original meeting to have been moved up a week with one day's notice.
In the next half hour I might discover a big professional shake up in my life. Let's hope that means a big, fat raise and lighter workload. C'est possible?
Oui!
I've been summoned. And I don't know why. But I know it's important enough for the original meeting to have been moved up a week with one day's notice.
In the next half hour I might discover a big professional shake up in my life. Let's hope that means a big, fat raise and lighter workload. C'est possible?
Oui!
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Disappeared.
So the thing about living is when you're all caught up in it, it's hard to find time to reflect on it. Or write about it. Whatever. I've been spending time writing about the past and finding myself where I am now through what I remember of the past, but I ain't publishing that stuff here. So, I'll update y'all on the past two-ish weeks that I've been away:
1. Paddy's Day: aka my coming out to my creative writing program. With a too-low cut top and shamrocks stuffed into my cleavage (for coverage, people!), I stood in front of colleagues, friends, family and enemies and presented my writing past and present. It went over well. At one point I looked up from the podium and saw my mom, Sher and Carlos in front of me, my philosophy mentor directly to my right and my current writing mentor to my left. It was a moment; I felt the love.
Then we all high tailed it back to my house for a fabaluss partay. Tex Mex and Irish music. Dancing and Drinking and Dining--the three d's essential to a good night. Fun, fun. Yay.
2. Screenplay workshop: I discovered that in writing Act One of my screenplay, I have given voice to my shadow side. She is unleashed. I was surprised that people's reaction to the thing has been, "Wow. This is dark. Every scene is sexually charged." Hmmmmm.
3. At one point in the past couple of weeks I paused, looked around (metaphorically speaking), and thought to myself, "God damn. I am exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I've always wanted to be doing."
4. Technical difficulties: My digital camera's battery power is zip. I've had to replace the batteries four times in a month. So I returned it, and the guy exchanged it no problem. That night I discovered he sent me home with the same defective camera I brought in. The previous morning, my computer wouldn't boot. After three calls to AppleCare, a dozen calls to the tech guys at work, a borrowed firewire, a borrowed laptop, borrowed time on a colleague's top-of-the-line, souped up Mac, I realized that I could not solve the problem. The AppleCare guys treated me like a 'tard. I couldn't cope anymore. So I hightailed it to the nearest Apple store (an hour away) where a beautiful geek missing his trigger fingers listened to my baby like it was a human heart and then shook his head sadly. "This is not good," he said. Then he helped me transfer as many documents as possible onto my ipod, which also mysteriously, spontaneously shut down. You see, and I don't want any finger wagging, please, I had not backed up my stuff. My book manuscript, my screenplay, all my articles. We managed to rescue most of them, but not all of the book chapters. You see, the computer's hard drive has been dying, and some of those files were already dead.
But what can you do? Trust that the chapter will come out better the next time, pray that my baby come back from Memphis even stronger, and back up everything in three different places forevermore. Live and learn.
5. Chicago: the trip was abbreviated because of my technical difficulties. But it was a blast. Eating, drinking, not enough dancing, but lots of laughing with some of the people I love the most. Thanks Sid, Shas, Y, Carlos. Y'all are my kind of fun.
Thanks especially to Sid and Carlos for accompanying me to the ballet on Saturday. NYC's American Ballet Theatre was in town to put on "Le Corsaire" and it was divine. I had never seen the show or ABT in the flesh before. They're astoundingly glorious dancers, and I've never seen such a male-centered classical piece. Act Two has a pas de trois that is the hottest thing I've ever seen on stage. And as I said after act one: "I'm in heaven. A shirtless pirate heaven." Lord have mercy. And did I mention that we scored student tickets for $20 a piece that happened to be center orchestra seats--the best in the house? Chicago Civic Opera House is a glory. Go see something there if you get a chance. It's worth it just to look at the house ceiling.
I ran the Shamrock Shuffle Sunday--the first race of the new season--and had a personal best. An 8K under a 10-minute pace. Hot damn. I'm on fire. Started strong, ended strong. Then went for brunch and got drunk. Man, life is good.
6. I also started a new quarter at the private college where I teach. This means a new narrative journalism class, and I have a feeling this group is going to kick ass. I'm eager to get my hands on their eager young minds. . . .
Geez. There's all kinds of other stuff, too, but that should do it for now. I got my hairs cut and I did a presentation in a lit. class on Toni Morrison's novel, "Jazz", that went awfully well. Read that book. It's hot. And astounding in what it sets out to do and what it actually accomplishes. Great writing changes the temperature of my blood as I'm reading. Whew!
Oh, and remember Bono? We have a date May 5. In my hometown.
And the daffodils are blooming where I can see them everyday.
Okay. That's enough for now, methinks. Thanks for your patience and sorry that I've neglected you.
I hope all y'all have had a less eventful time the past couple of weeks.
Or do I?
1. Paddy's Day: aka my coming out to my creative writing program. With a too-low cut top and shamrocks stuffed into my cleavage (for coverage, people!), I stood in front of colleagues, friends, family and enemies and presented my writing past and present. It went over well. At one point I looked up from the podium and saw my mom, Sher and Carlos in front of me, my philosophy mentor directly to my right and my current writing mentor to my left. It was a moment; I felt the love.
Then we all high tailed it back to my house for a fabaluss partay. Tex Mex and Irish music. Dancing and Drinking and Dining--the three d's essential to a good night. Fun, fun. Yay.
2. Screenplay workshop: I discovered that in writing Act One of my screenplay, I have given voice to my shadow side. She is unleashed. I was surprised that people's reaction to the thing has been, "Wow. This is dark. Every scene is sexually charged." Hmmmmm.
3. At one point in the past couple of weeks I paused, looked around (metaphorically speaking), and thought to myself, "God damn. I am exactly where I want to be, doing exactly what I've always wanted to be doing."
4. Technical difficulties: My digital camera's battery power is zip. I've had to replace the batteries four times in a month. So I returned it, and the guy exchanged it no problem. That night I discovered he sent me home with the same defective camera I brought in. The previous morning, my computer wouldn't boot. After three calls to AppleCare, a dozen calls to the tech guys at work, a borrowed firewire, a borrowed laptop, borrowed time on a colleague's top-of-the-line, souped up Mac, I realized that I could not solve the problem. The AppleCare guys treated me like a 'tard. I couldn't cope anymore. So I hightailed it to the nearest Apple store (an hour away) where a beautiful geek missing his trigger fingers listened to my baby like it was a human heart and then shook his head sadly. "This is not good," he said. Then he helped me transfer as many documents as possible onto my ipod, which also mysteriously, spontaneously shut down. You see, and I don't want any finger wagging, please, I had not backed up my stuff. My book manuscript, my screenplay, all my articles. We managed to rescue most of them, but not all of the book chapters. You see, the computer's hard drive has been dying, and some of those files were already dead.
But what can you do? Trust that the chapter will come out better the next time, pray that my baby come back from Memphis even stronger, and back up everything in three different places forevermore. Live and learn.
5. Chicago: the trip was abbreviated because of my technical difficulties. But it was a blast. Eating, drinking, not enough dancing, but lots of laughing with some of the people I love the most. Thanks Sid, Shas, Y, Carlos. Y'all are my kind of fun.
Thanks especially to Sid and Carlos for accompanying me to the ballet on Saturday. NYC's American Ballet Theatre was in town to put on "Le Corsaire" and it was divine. I had never seen the show or ABT in the flesh before. They're astoundingly glorious dancers, and I've never seen such a male-centered classical piece. Act Two has a pas de trois that is the hottest thing I've ever seen on stage. And as I said after act one: "I'm in heaven. A shirtless pirate heaven." Lord have mercy. And did I mention that we scored student tickets for $20 a piece that happened to be center orchestra seats--the best in the house? Chicago Civic Opera House is a glory. Go see something there if you get a chance. It's worth it just to look at the house ceiling.
I ran the Shamrock Shuffle Sunday--the first race of the new season--and had a personal best. An 8K under a 10-minute pace. Hot damn. I'm on fire. Started strong, ended strong. Then went for brunch and got drunk. Man, life is good.
6. I also started a new quarter at the private college where I teach. This means a new narrative journalism class, and I have a feeling this group is going to kick ass. I'm eager to get my hands on their eager young minds. . . .
Geez. There's all kinds of other stuff, too, but that should do it for now. I got my hairs cut and I did a presentation in a lit. class on Toni Morrison's novel, "Jazz", that went awfully well. Read that book. It's hot. And astounding in what it sets out to do and what it actually accomplishes. Great writing changes the temperature of my blood as I'm reading. Whew!
Oh, and remember Bono? We have a date May 5. In my hometown.
And the daffodils are blooming where I can see them everyday.
Okay. That's enough for now, methinks. Thanks for your patience and sorry that I've neglected you.
I hope all y'all have had a less eventful time the past couple of weeks.
Or do I?
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